Must Love Lycans

by Michele Bardsley

  I shook my head. “I’ll put on some antibiotic ointment and bandage it. I’ll be fine.”

  Jarred quirked a brow. He removed his cell phone and pressed one button. “Dr. Ruthers, please come to Kelsey Morningstone’s suite. She’s been bitten by a werewolf.” He ended the call and stuck the phone back into his jacket pocket.

  “Yeah. Funny,” I said. “It’s nice that you take Damian’s case so seriously.”

  “Believe me, Kelsey, I take Damian’s case very seriously.” He reached into an upper cabinet and pulled down an elaborate bottle with a gold spiral around it. In another cabinet, he pulled down two snifters.

  I looked at him, surprised. “I had no idea those were in there.”

  “I stocked the kitchen for you. It doesn’t look like you use it much.”

  “I don’t cook.”

  “I’ll get you a chef,” he said as he handed me the glass. “Then you won’t have to.”

  I didn’t particularly want alcohol to soothe my jangled nerves. I thought the whole gesture was rather cliché, but with Jarred staring at me expectantly, I took a small sip.

  I grimaced. “Ew. That’s yucky!”

  His eyes went wide, and he nearly choked on the drink he’d just taken.

  I put the glass on the counter. “I don’t think I’m a brandy kind of girl.”

  “If you can’t enjoy a one-hundred-twenty-year-old brandy with a seven-thousand-dollar price tag,” he managed hoarsely, “then no, you are not a brandy kind of girl.”

  I studied the bottle, wondering why on earth he would spend so much money on such a silly thing. “Maybe you can get your money back.”

  He shook his head. “On my soul, I will never tell the Frapin family that you called their Cuveé 1888 ‘yucky.’ ”

  I shrugged. “It’s your liver.”

  He put his glass next to the one I’d abandoned. Once again, he moved very close to me, leaning a hip against the counter. He reached out and curled a strand of my hair around his forefinger. “You are not impressed by the trappings of wealth.”

  “I used to measure my success by the amount and quality of possessions I acquired.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m beholden to a man trapped in his wealth.”

  He actually chuckled. His eyes crinkled in a way that made me think he had once been a man who laughed easily. I wondered what had happened to him to make him so closed off. He let my hair drop. Then he crossed his arms, his enigmatic gaze on mine. “I won’t allow you to quit.”

  My mouth dropped open. He’d discerned my intent before the idea had fully formed. Hadn’t that really been what my mind had been circling around? My heart just hadn’t caught up. Once he said the words, however, I knew quitting this job, hell, quitting as a psychotherapist altogether, was exactly what I needed to do. I had never felt in charge of my own life. Part of it was because my mother was controlling—always pushing me toward the goals she thought I should accomplish. Still. I was twenty-eight years old. I could hardly keep blaming my mommy issues. Okay, I could, but I wouldn’t. The other part, of course, was my fear. What would I do if I wasn’t a therapist?

  I couldn’t think of a thing.

  It was scary to look at a road stretching out in front of me, endless and spiraling with no familiar landmarks.

  After all I’d been through, I was still a coward.

  “It’s not your choice,” I finally said. “You would think after I let a serial killer loose, I would’ve gotten the universal hint that I shouldn’t be a therapist.”

  “What Robert Mallard did was not your fault.”

  “It was, actually.”

  He considered me for a long moment. I was feeling too tired to defend my position on anything else, and the pain of my injury had been worsening every second. It ached so badly now, I just wanted to pop some Advil and go to bed. I resisted the urge to touch the wounded flesh again. I had no idea what would soothe a bite, but suddenly I was glad Jarred had called Dr. Ruthers. Surely the physician had some magical ointment that would fix me.

  “You will continue to work for me,” said Jarred. “Or you’ll have to deal with the legalities of walking away from your obligations.”

  I felt the blood drain out of my face. I’d agreed to three years as administrator and head therapist in exchange for Jarred paying off my debts, a generous salary, and this luxury apartment. “You would sue me for breach of contract,” I said flatly.

  “As a start.”

  I tamped down my anger. Jarred was probably expecting me to get upset, so I tossed aside my impulse to tell him to take a flying leap, and tried to appeal to his sense of reason. “We both know I’m not cut out for this job. The staff doesn’t respect me. The patients don’t trust me. Sven thinks I’m an idiot. And you have the gall to believe that I’ll fall into bed with you because you’re rich and smart and handsome.”

  “What’s wrong with those qualities?” he asked, ignoring everything else I’d said.

  “When you can buy anything, or anyone, then nothing truly has worth. How can you cherish what you hold, Jarred, when you did nothing more than pay for it?”

  He didn’t look away from me, but he didn’t respond right away, apparently mulling over my words. Then he shrugged. “It’s the way my world works. Everyone, and everything, has a price. One I can always pay.”

  “I suppose that’s true. There’s no doubt you bought me,” I said. “But you don’t own me. Every female within a hundred miles would warm your bed tonight, but in the morning, what would you have left?”

  “Some very good memories.”

  “I don’t want to be someone’s very good memory,” I said softly. “Is that all you aspire to, Jarred?”

  He didn’t answer, and though I still wasn’t getting any real vibes off him, I believed I glimpsed into his soul—maybe just a teeny-tiny bit. What Jarred was seeking, either through his work, this clinic, me, or that fancy brandy of his, he would not find. He wanted what we all wanted, what we all sought from each other on a daily basis. Connection. If we were lucky, we found our equal, the partner who balanced our weaknesses with their strengths, who offered us companionship and faith and security.

  Jarred Dante wanted love.

  “You look pale,” he said. I detected the barest whisper of concern in his words.

  It was as if his words sparked the reaction. Cold rushed through me, followed by a wave of prickling heat. My knees buckled, and he caught me. I stared at him, wide-eyed. “I don’t feel well.”

  The room started to spin, and I clutched Jarred’s arms, trying to right myself. Instead, I tumbled into the awful vortex. I spun and spun . . . away from the light, the room, the man holding me . . . and into the thick, cloying darkness.

  Down, down, down into the rabbit hole once again.

  Chapter 3

  “You were quite unexpected.”

  The woman’s lilting voice drew me out of the spinning dark. When I opened my eyes, I stood within a circle of trees so tall that their myriad thick branches nearly blotted out the moon overhead. Lights glimmered among the branches, and I had no doubt the flickering dots were fireflies—and there were certainly a lot of them. I wore a blue dress of the sort I associated with Greek goddesses, my hair loose and flowing over my shoulders. I clutched the soft fabric in my hands, wondering at the significance of being dressed in such a manner.

  Before me, sitting on a throne carved out of beautiful polished wood was a woman so gorgeous, she couldn’t be real. She had long black hair that coiled in tight ringlets down to her waist. Her skin was as pale as cream, her features refined and delicate. Her dress was a dark blue satin, it seemed finely cut and expensive, yet her feet were as bare as mine. On her head rested a crown that seemed to be woven from both polished wood and gold; in its center was a bloodred ruby the size of a kiwi.

  “I am the Moon Goddess and this is my mate, Tark.” My gaze was drawn to where the woman’s hand rested on the scruff of a very large black wolf. His collar was m
ade of the same materials as the lady’s crown, with the same size and shape ruby. His jade green gaze assessed me in such a haughty manner that I immediately felt unworthy of his scrutiny.

  He reminded me of Damian—not only that familiar green gaze, but the proud stance, the arrogant tilt to his head. He didn’t look too thrilled with me, and I took a step back.

  “You’re frightening her, darling. Be nice.”

  Tark snorted and raised his snout. Hoo-kay. Was that wolf gesture for “I won’t eat you now, but watch it”?

  “Where am I?” I asked.

  “I redirected your consciousness. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to visit Damian’s intended. You are an unusual choice for a lycan bride,” she said, her brown eyes assessing me. “But I approve.”

  The wolf barked, turning his visage to the lady, his head cocked in a silent query.

  “What else can we do?” she asked him. “Damian has been lost to us for so long. He must reclaim his rightful place as the crown prince. He must heal the wounds of his past and look to the future.”

  “I know I’m dreaming,” I said. “And I know I have this very inappropriate . . . er, thing for Damian. But maybe you could explain. You know, everything.”

  “There’s no time to explain it all,” she said. “I’ll try to cover the basics. Damian and his brothers are royal lycanthropes—the only ones. You see, they can trace their bloodlines directly to me. They are different from the other lycans, just as the full-bloods are different from the Roma.”

  I blinked. I latched on to the last of her words because the rest made no sense. “What’s a Roma?”

  The lady sighed. “I’m going about this completely wrong. We have so little time and there is much you must know.”

  The wolf yipped, putting a paw onto her thigh. She leaned down and planted a kiss on the wolf’s snout. “Yes, darling. Of course.” She looked at me. “Damian abandoned everything he once held dear because he believes that he failed his people. He also believes that I abandoned him. Neither he nor his brothers will talk to me. Not anymore. I used to hear their prayers every night. After Danielle died, they stopped.”

  The wolf at her side whined and she tugged on his ear.

  “Who’s Danielle?”

  “His adopted sister. She was orphaned when she was only an infant and she was raised as royalty with the triplets. She was killed, and her death broke Damian’s heart. He couldn’t forgive himself for not saving her.”

  Damian had said his sister died. Was this . . . No. I was creating this fiction. I was dreaming, and wow, my mind was working overtime to fill in the blanks of Damian’s life.

  “The full-bloods are dying, their numbers dwindling. They have no faith,” she said sadly. “They are lonely for the old ways, the times when they had a real community. Damian believes that his time is past, that another rules that which belongs to him. This is, of course, incorrect.”

  Tark barked in a way that seemed to convey annoyance.

  “They are still werewolves,” she admonished. “And you know they have a different destiny from our dear ones.” She drew in a breath and offered me a dazzling smile. “Damian has chosen you.”

  “Chosen me for what?” I felt a vague panic swishing around inside me.

  “To be his mate.” Her tone had gone quiet, serious.

  This was the craziest dream I’d ever had. I wasn’t the mate of anyone, much less the schizophrenic who’d attacked me. “Damian thinks he’s a werewolf. You’re saying he bit me so he could . . . uh, marry me?”

  “I really wish we could skip the ‘convince you it’s the truth’ part of this process,” said the lady. “Perhaps you could simply believe all that I’m telling you.”

  Yeah. Right. If I believed even a tenth of the crap she’d just spewed, I’d be getting my own patient suite at the Dante Clinic.

  Tark pawed her thigh, his nails rustling in the folds of her dress.

  “Yes,” she said. “I know.” She glanced at me. “Our natures include robust passions that prove wearisome for lesser creatures. It is rare that a lycan will choose a human for anything other than a temporary lover. You see, our children have been unable to breed with humans.” She stroked the wolf’s head. “Tark is worried about your ability to procreate—even with your unique attributes.”

  “You mean my sunny disposition and gazellelike legs?”

  Her laughter was like the ringing of wind chimes. “You don’t yet know the secret locked within you.” Sadness flickered in her gaze, but she still managed to keep her hopeful smile. “Sometimes that which begins in sorrow ends in joy.”

  I couldn’t think of a response, so I said nothing and tried to keep my stare polite. All I had to do was wake up. When I did, this dream would fade like any other. I would probably even laugh at the way my subconscious had played around with my attraction to Damian.

  “You must help him to find his way again, Kelsey.”

  The wolf turned toward me and dipped his snout in recognition of the lady’s words. I wanted to help Damian, but I knew the reality of his situation. His delusion held him in thrall, and apparently me as well. We both needed to shake free of this madness.

  As I watched, the wolf rose to stand on his hind legs. His fur receded with feathered hushes as his bones snicked under his flesh. Within moments I beheld a naked man as strong and handsome as Damian with jade eyes, an aquiline nose, and thin-as-blades cheeks. His curtain of black hair brushed his buttocks. The collar around his neck remained. He was tall, well muscled, and regarded me with something between curiosity and suspicion.

  “You know how stubborn these humans are,” he said in a low, raspy voice. “They require proof.” He looked at me reproachfully. “Faith is too often discarded by your kind.”

  “Sometimes it’s taken from us,” I said softly.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “How pathetic that you give it up so easily.” He sighed. “If but one would stand and hold firm, others would follow.”

  “Doubt is its own monster, with teeth and claws and poison,” said the Goddess, “which is why two faithful souls are stronger still.” She pointed at me. “I bestow this symbol so that both you and Damian will embrace the truths we have given you.”

  Blue light sizzled from her fingertip. The bolt smacked into my flesh inches above my left breast and seemed to burn a hole right through me. Pain exploded. I cried out, grabbing on to my shoulder, only to let go when the spikes of agony worsened. The ground beneath my feet gave away, and once again I was spinning into the clasping darkness.

  When I awoke, I was in my own bed. My eyes felt puffy and heavy, my limbs ached. Fever flushed my skin, the heat of illness buried into muscle and bone. A single lamp on the nightstand offered a small glow of light that did nothing to dispel the shadows of my bedroom. I was tucked in tightly, the covers thick and suffocating.

  I wanted to push them off, but neither my arms nor my legs obeyed the commands to move. I turned my head, my mouth dry and my lips cracked.

  Just outside the circle of light sat a man in a chair that had once graced the left side of my bedroom hearth. He was leaning forward, his elbows balancing on his knees as he cradled his head.

  “Water,” I managed. “Please.”

  His head came up instantly, his eyes wide. “Kelsey.”

  “Mr. Dante.” Even through the haze of pain and unbearable heat, I saw how crumpled his suit looked, how his hair looked as though he’d furrowed his fingers through it numerous times, and how worry weighted a gaze I once thought so cold.

  He rose from his chair and moved into the darkness where I could no longer discern his figure. I heard the clink of ice and the sweet sound of pouring liquid. He returned to the bed, sitting gingerly on its edge. Carefully, he slipped his hand behind my head and held me gently as he lifted the glass to my mouth. “Sip only,” he said.

  I did as he asked, even though I wanted to gulp it all down. My stomach roiled at even the small tastes I allowed myself, so I reluctantly stopped imbibing.r />
  “What’s wrong with me?” I asked.

  His expression was wintry. “Nothing that you asked for, I assure you.”

  His response confused me, but I couldn’t croak out any more questions. Exhaustion battered me, competing viciously with the streams of agony that flowed from temples to toes.

  He put the glass on the nightstand, and then readjusted the mountainous bedding that covered me. “We are dealing with too many unknowns. Despite the legends and myths surrounding werewolves, the truth is that until now, lycans were born, not made.”

  Something about his tone, not to mention the actual, crazy words, caused alarm to leap through me. “Lycans?”

  Not this again! It seemed as though my contact with Damian had infected me with his delusion, for why else would I keep having conversations with people who believed werewolves to be real?

  “This is not how I wanted to introduce you to my world,” he continued, his words clipped. “But the choice was taken from me. I did us no favors by rescuing Damian from his captors.” His smile was thin and sharp. “Had I known he would take what I sought for myself, I would’ve left him to rot in his prison.”

  His tone was strangely formal, and the words still on this side of infreakingsane. I was trying to take it all in, but my aching head felt stuffed with cotton. Surely I was dreaming again, having dropped out of a forest where a goddess and her wolf-mate told me outrageous lies and into this nightmare of Jarred spouting nonsense.

  “Lycanthropes are real,” he insisted. He brushed limp strands of hair away from my face. Bitterness turned his gray eyes as flat and hard as river stones. “Like it or not, you’ve been claimed by the prince of werewolves.”

  Jarred’s preposterous announcement propelled me back into the exhaustion of illness and nightmares. Every so often, I would surface from the fevered terrors, feeling as though I had somehow ripped away my own skin to reveal my true self: a dark, craven creature that pawed and growled and bared its teeth. This was the very creature Robert Mallard had said that I bore inside me, the one he wanted to set free. He’d wanted to kill the “outer me,” so that the “inner me” could join him in his life’s work. He’d even brought along a present for the occasion: a seventeen-year-old girl with long blond hair and terrified blue eyes.